In 500 ft., sing “If You’re Completely satisfied and You Know It” over your youngster’s piercing cries.
In 2 miles, understand you have been too drained to note the irony of your tune selection over your youngster’s piercing cries.
In 100 ft., regretfully pause your podcast.
In 20 ft., play CocoMelon on Spotify to stop your youngster’s piercing cries.
In 1 / 4 mile, do not forget that New Yorker profile concerning the questionable practices of the studio that produces CocoMelon.
Flip proper and switch off CocoMelon.
Proceed towards your vacation spot listening to your youngster’s piercing cries.
In 200 ft., test the mirror to make sure your youngster hasn’t escaped the automobile seat like just a little Gen. Alpha Houdini.
In half a mile, use the– It’s simply the YouTube movies which might be corroding youngsters’ brains. Proper? RIGHT?!
Flip left and activate CocoMelon.
For the following 4 miles, benefit from the sound of your silent youngster—and bona fide nursery rhyme bangers.
In a single and a half miles, nod approvingly when Spotify switches it as much as Sesame Road.
In 500 ft., understand you’ve aged right into a demographic advertisers goal to promote cleansing provides, when you end up pondering: “Man, Elmo’s Music slaps!”
In 300 ft., widen your eyes on the sight of a yellow mild that threatens to stop your car’s movement and the delicate contentment of your pacified youngster.
In 50 ft., gun it towards the intersection… too little too late.
In 200 ft., fuck everybody driving behind you and decelerate so excruciatingly slowly in order to keep up even the slightest movement for so long as doable with a purpose to maintain your youngster from resuming their piercing cries, as you method the now pink mild.
In 15 ft., settle for the very fact of what’s to come back with the dignity of a medieval knight unwillingly dropped at his execution floor.
In 5 ft., white knuckle your steering wheel… and are available to a full and full cease.
Proceed on to your vacation spot listening to your youngster’s piercing cries.
In 200 ft., take the ramp and take your youngster’s earmuffs from the diaper bag to your personal listening to safety.
Merge onto the freeway trying like an airport technician behind the wheel.
In half a mile of stop-and-go visitors, ask your self why you didn’t use fucking Wayze.
In 600 ft., use your free hand to root round for a snack or one thing you absentmindedly left within the backseat, you fucking forgetful fuck.
In 1 / 4 mile, dislocate your shoulder to attempt to feed your youngster a veggie straw.
In 500 ft., veer violently towards the shoulder to reinsert your dislocated shoulder.
In one other half-mile of stop-and-go visitors, ask your self why you didn’t use fucking Wayze.
In 100 ft., beg your toddler youngster to PLEASE cease their piercing cries, PLEASE.
In 20 ft., keep in mind your youngster’s solely spoken phrase is: “Poot.”
In 3 miles, do not forget that you have been as soon as the crying child within the backseat.
In 50 ft., acknowledge that you’re additionally crying.
For the following 2 miles, remorse that your youngster have to be topic to the confines of the automobile seat for one second longer—and a number of indignities they didn’t select, like a lifetime on this warming planet, which you’re actively harming along with your carbon-emitting automobile—and decide to ending their poor, piercing cries, regardless of the impediment.
In 200 ft., finger the swap on the again of your steering wheel to fireplace Mario Kart projectiles at visitors down the freeway.
In 50 ft., veer left to dodge a Cybertruck spun uncontrolled by a Koopa Shell.
In 1 / 4 mile, depress the button beside your trunk launch to activate your car’s Batmobile/Tumbler Mode.
For the following 6 miles, obliterate all that stands in your approach.
In 300 ft., shout, STAY WITH ME! throughout a type of interminable pauses between your youngster’s piercing cries.
In half a mile, take a name out of your involved partner, who asks if that’s you on TV. There are helicopters and all the pieces.
In 200 ft., shut the sunroof shade for just a little privateness from the native information staff.
In 500 ft., inform your partner all the pieces is ok, and mumble one thing you heard Vin Diesel say about “household.”
In 400 ft., hit the thrusters to launch your car off of the freeway.
In 15 ft., crash-land on a Cybertruck and inform your youngster: I’M GETTING YOU TO GYMBOREE ON TIME.
Proceed to your vacation spot down Fury Street.
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